The Boy With the Bread
by mercywaters
Summary: The Hunger Games. We all know the story. We all know how it goes. But something we fail to remember-there is more than one story to tell.  This is the tale of the 74th Annual Hunger Games, from Peeta Mellark's point of view.
1. Chapter 1

Before my eyes have even cracked open, the familiar scent creeps into my nostrils.

Bread. Warm, baking, delicious bread. Bread my family slaves over the hot oven to bake every day, yet never gets to taste.

A gaping yawn distorts my features. I can just see the soft gray light that precedes sunrise crawling across my ceiling and throwing soft shadows across the far wall.

Reaping day has arrived at last.

My stomach drops. It's best not to think about that. There's no use. There's no use torturing myself with thoughts of the coming ceremony. I've learned that well over the past 4 years.

I can hear my brothers stirring in the next room. Owning a bakery and having to run it day after day has reset my family's natural clock over the years. Now, when the sun wakes up, so do we.

Duty calls.

I get up and slowly get dressed, donning the soft white apron I scrub clean every night after we've closed up shop. My large hands brush out the wrinkles and I notice the warmth already creeping into the air. This doesn't sit right with me, somehow. It should be cold. Chilling. There's no room for warmth on a day like this.

Pushing these thoughts away yet again, I tromp downstairs, inhaling the sweet bread scent. My father working tirelessly in the kitchen is a familiar sight. I remember being younger, my blond hair falling into my eyes, toddling into the kitchen to be met with the same scene. He would always stop what he was doing and grin, picking me up in his burly arms as he showed me the bread cooling on the countertops.

But now he never stops. Money is tighter and so every second in the kitchen counts.

Today, I find him peering into the oven, back bent and eyes squinting with age. He mentally records the bread's progress before straightening up and wiping away the sheen of sweat on his brown that the flames have caused. Years of being in this business has leant him broad, strong shoulders and muscled arms. His hands are curled and calloused from long ago burns. We share the same build, though most say I've inherited my mother's softer features.

I step forward into the kitchen and cough. A few candles sit flickering on the table in the center of the room. Electricity must be out again.

My father jerks in my direction. He's always jumpy on Reaping day.

"Oh, Peeta." His eyes are wide and concerned. "You're out of bed."

We stare awkwardly at one another. My mother, at the sound of his voice, pauses by the door leading to the shop front where's she's already stocking the shelves. At the sight of me she quickly turns and disappears from sight.

"I thought I told you to sleep in last night?"

My attention jerks back to my father. "Ah, yeah, I know. But I couldn't sleep," I give a wry grin and a rather convincing laugh in an effort to diffuse the tension. I'm always the peace keeper in the family. My father over worries on Reaping day, and I reassure him and act as if nothing's wrong. My mother has one of her angry fits, and I take the brunt of it. My brothers do something wrong, and I take the blame. It's just how things are.

"Are your brothers up?"

As if in response, there comes a loud thump from upstairs. One of them fell out of bed, most likely.

I want to get busy before they come downstairs. My brothers have the same sandy blond hair as myself and mother, and the same build all the men in our family seem to inherit. But that's where the resemblance stops. Both of them seem to have taken after my mother in attitude, and it typically takes all my patience just to stay in the same room with them.

"What do you want me to do?" I ask brightly. My voice sounds overly high.

He directs me to the countertop next to him, where the ingredients for our cheese buns are already laid out. I immediately throw myself into the work, doing anything to put the thought of later out of my mind.

Finally, hours later, I have several batches complete. The sun is high in the sky and just as I suspected, it's a hot day. I'm drenched in sweat.

"I think that's enough, son," my father says gruffly, surveying the freshly baked goods I've just pulled out. All I need is enough to fill our small cart out back. I'll be dragging it out to the Hob today.

Every year on the day of the Reaping, most of the businesses close early. Our bakery is right in the main square, so we have to close well in advance of the ceremony. But money is tight so we can't afford such a loss in sales. This is where I come in. Being the oldest, it's my responsibility to drag a cart full of our breads to the Hob, a place we'd never normally go.

I'm loading up the cart just outside the back door when someone coughs. I start and look up, only to be met with the eyes of _him_. Gale Hawthorne. He's holding a dead squirrel by the tail.

"Hi," he says, gazing absently past me and through the door. "Is your father in?"

I know what he wants. My father has a soft spot for squirrel meat that I'll never understand, and Gale knows this. So he comes with one of the furry creatures in hand and trades it for fresh bread. He never uses the front door though. My mother's temper is well known in District 12, even amongst those in the Seam.

"I'll get him." I barely spare him a glance and turn to get inside as quickly as possible. Will he share the bread with _her_? Will they eat it out in the woods where they always go together, and sit and talk and laugh?

She's so beautiful when she laughs.

My insides burn with jealousy. I need to stop this.

"Gale's here," I tell my father before grabbing the last batch of bread and bringing it back out to the cart. Balancing it carefully so as not to squish the others, I grab hold of the handles and wheel the cart around Gale and across the square, not sparing him a second glance.

The Hob is a ways away. It's near the Seam, which is on the outskirts of District 12. But after a good 15 minutes of walking, the warehouse comes into view. I can already see people bustling in and out, despite the early hour. I feel strange walking in, so I keep my eyes trained on the cart, avoiding eye contact with any who pass.

This is technically a black market. But the Peacekeepers could hardly care, considering they themselves make full use of it. I set up a makeshift stand and try to make the goods look appealing. And then I sit back and wait.

It's a bit past noon and all the bread is nearly gone when I see her.

Katniss. Her long dark hair is usually in a braid, but it seems like she's tucked it up into her cap today. She's wearing her hunting jacket and boots and carrying an armful of game. I see Gale bringing up the rear and know I was right. They've just come from the woods.

I stare morosely after Katniss for the next 10 minutes or so as she fleets from booth to booth. She seems to know everyone here. Everyone smiles and seems so pleased to see her. But I shrink back and avert my eyes as she walks past.

This is just how things are. It's how they've always been.

I have to leave. The cart's empty and the Reaping is ever approaching. The trip back to my home is much faster, due to the empty cart bouncing along the dirt road behind me. I leave it by the back door and bound up to my room, getting dressed in my best shirt and pants. Nervousy makes me jumpy. It makes me quick as well. I'm ready within minutes and find myself pacing for the next hour.

But then it's time.

I step out the front door with my brothers in tow. The square is already alive with people. I can see the camera crews getting ready on the rooftops, their lenses glinting ominously. I sign in before shuffling towards where I should be, a roped off section on the right for 16 year old boys. I can see my father scanning the crowd from the side, his forehead wrinkled in worry. My mother seems unconcerned.

The temporary stage stands large and imposing at the head of the square. Three chairs sit vacated behind a podium and between the two round Reaping balls. Within moments Mayor Undersee and District 12's escort, Effie Trinket, take the stage and seat themselves. Effie looks positively giddy as she takes in the growing crowd. She wears a pink wig and a light green suit, and her impish grin knows no bounds.

The clock strikes two and immediately Mayor Undersee approaches the podium and jumps into his annual speech. The history of Panem spills from his mouth. I barely hear it though, as I'm doing my best to hold down the small lunch I ate before coming here.

"I'm only in 5 times." I remind myself softly, so no one else will hear. "Keep it together."

But that's a difficult thing to do. We all know very well that by nightfall today one unfortunate girl and one unfortunate boy will have been chosen and on their way to the Capitol. And odds are, neither will return. The Hunger Games aren't known for having a high survival rate.

We watch them die, year after year. And that's how the Capitol likes it.

"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," Mayor Undersee intones grimly.

Just as he is reading off the past District 12 victors (a very short list, considering we've only ever had two), Haymitch Abernathy stumbles onto the stage, yelling gibberish at the top of his lungs. He's an older man and a notorious drunk. And he's arrived just in time.

Mayor Undersee frantically tries to distract from the embarrassment that is Haymitch, who has thrown himself into one of the chairs behind the podium.

Effie Trinket steps forward. "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

My eyes are glued to the reaping balls. _Only five._

"Ladies first!" Her annoying trill jabs through my consciousness and I glance over at the girls, roped off to our left. Some of them look exactly how I feel. Like they're going to be sick.

She plunges her hand into the reaping ball, twisting it around wildly as if trying to create some sort of dramatic effect.

Not Katniss. It's all I want. Not Katniss. It can't be Katniss. I don't want to watch her die. Not Katniss.

She totters back to the podium on her dramatic pink heels. She smooths the paper out in front of her.

"Primrose Everdeen!


	2. Chapter 2

The square is silent. Completely, utterly silent.

Primose Everdeen. I know that name.

I turn abruptly, a lone movement amongst the deathly still crowd. I need to see her. Katniss. There she is, her eyes wide with shock. She's mouthing wordlessly as if she wants to say something but nothing comes out. Another boy in our section, looking to be from the Seam by his dark hair and eyes, grabs her by the shoulders to steady her. For a moment another burst of jealousy shoots through me as I wish to be the one touching and comforting her.

But then I see the girl and I don't care about that anymore. She's so small. So young. And she looks so afraid. The crowd around me is coming to life in indignation as she makes her way to the stage, quaking with every step. Her face is stark white and she looks like she hasn't registered what's happened yet. Her small fists are clenched.

She's barely lived her life, and now the Capitol is going to take it away from her.

I'm still mourning little Prim's inevitable death when I hear the choked cry. It sounds inhuman, for a moment I can't even tell who it is or what they're saying. All I can hear is the desperation. And the fear. There's always fear in a cry like that.

"Prim!"

I turn to see Katniss barreling through the crowd and my heart drops. _No._

"Prim!" she cries again. Desperate. So desperate.

Prim turns, staring at her sister in fright. Katniss shoves her forcefully away from the stage. She steps in front of her, wild eyed and breathing hard. And I know what's she's going to say.

"I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"

Silence. My ears are roaring and all of a sudden nothing feels real. I can't tear my eyes away from her. Katniss. The beautiful, dark-haired girl from the Seam. The girl with the voice I fell in love with at age 5. Never in my life did I expect someone so important to me to be chosen. Never. I can't believe it.

_She's going to die. She's going to die._

_Katniss is going to die._

Before I can completely spiral out of control, I hear Effie Trinket. Her excited chirp seems so wrong and out of place that it pierces straight through my haze of disbelief.

"Lovely!" she cries. "But I believe there's a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth then we, um…" she trails off pathetically.

I'm grateful when Mayor Undersee cuts in. "What does it matter?" He's staring at Katniss with a peculiar, pained expression. Is he as upset as I am by this turn of events? How many people are as devastated as I am, if not more?

"What does it matter? Let her come forward." He's speaking softer now. He knows there's nothing he can do.

It's at this moment that Prim starts to scream. Her small body is a whirlwind of arms and legs as she tries desperately to cling to her sister.

"No, Katniss! No! You can't go!" She's sobbing hysterically into the back of Katniss' light blue reaping dress. I think Katniss says something to her, but I can't hear until she repeats it louder, practically yelling.

"Let go!"

Gale appears then, lifting the thrashing girl away from Katniss. His face is stony but his eyes are red and moist. Katniss ascends the steps and Effie Trinket jumps on her in excitement.

"Well, bravo!" she exclaims over enthusiastically. "That's the spirit of the Games! What's your name?"

"Katniss Everdeen." She looks like she's in a daze. A ghost of herself, not really there.

This is all too much for Effie, who nearly loses her head at this tidbit of information.

"I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody! Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!"

No. I will not applaud you and what you're doing. Katniss, sweet Katniss is being taken away. The rest of District 12 seems to share my sentiments. No one lifts so much as a finger to comply with Effie's request.

Instead, they lift their fingers for something else entirely. There's a stir to my right and I see a group of men, one of them being my own father, extending the three middle fingers of their left hand to Katniss in salute, their eyes solemn. A ripple passes through the crowd and soon thousands of hands are raised towards her, my own included. We're saying good luck. We're saying thank you.

We're saying goodbye, Katniss.

She looks on the verge of tears when Haymitch lurches to his feet and throws an arm roughly around her shoulder. "Look at her, look at this one! I like her!" He's laughing now, laughing like an insane man. "Lots of… spunk! More than you!" He steps forward, pointing into the camera. "More than _you_!"

And that's when he falls off the stage. I feel the pit of dread in my stomach growing as I realize how doomed Katniss is, with him to call her mentor. She doesn't stand a chance.

Effie seems flustered for a moment but soon pulls herself together, doing her best to ignore the struggle going on below. Two people are attempting to lift an unconscious Haymitch onto a stretcher.

"What an exciting day!" Her fingers flit around quickly as she attempts to straighten her wig. "But more excitement to come!" The stretcher borne by its escorts is just being carted away as she approaches the next reaping ball. "It's time to choose our boy tribute!"

With a flourish she plucks the first piece of paper her fingertips alight on. Then she's back at the podium and for the first time since Katniss volunteered I remember to be afraid.

Only five. Only five. _Only five._

"Peeta Mellark."

Peeta? Peeta Mellark? _Me?_

I can't breathe. Heads are turning in my direction but I barely register them. I can see nothing but the stage. Effie and her ridiculous wig, her eyes scanning the crowd quizzically. That tiny, seemingly insignificant slip of paper, still spread out in front of her. That tiny scrap of paper has sentenced me to certain death.

But I also see Katniss. And that's when I remember. The realization hits me like a ton of bricks.

I'm going into the arena with Katniss.

My feet have started moving of their own accord. With every step I draw closer to the stage. I feel like I'm in a daze. Is this really happening? How can it be happening?

Step. Step. Step. I ascend the stairs. My legs feel like lead weights. Effie Trinket asks for volunteers, and the only response she gets is blank stares.

The silence pounds in my ears. All at once, I know I'm doomed.

Mayor Undersee steps forward again. In the back of my mind I register that he must be reading the Treaty of Treason, as he always does after the tributes are chosen. But I'm not listening because I've turned and all of a sudden I'm staring straight into her eyes.

She looks so incredibly distraught that I almost take a step back. Her eyes show a pain and inner conflict I can't comprehend. I feel like I stare into her eyes for eternity, both of us lost and confused and terrified and then I find myself transported back in time. Back to a rainy day in mid-April. Five years ago.

Katniss' father had died earlier that year, in the winter. I remember it well. A section of the mines had exploded and countless lives were lost. A special ceremony was held in their honor and my father took me and my brothers to watch, because he said it was the right thing to do. And I guess after that, after her father was killed, her family began to starve.

It's common for people to starve to death in District 12. I'm not sure what happened with Katniss' family. I don't know why her mother didn't get a job to support them. But she was starving and one day she found herself outside the bakery's back door, rifling through our trash bins desperately for any trace of food.

I was the first one to see her. Our ovens are situated right by the back windows, and as I pulled out a fresh loaf I caught sight of her. Skinny, starving Katniss, 11 years old and standing bedraggled in the icy rain. Her wide eyes stared hungrily at our windows, though I don't think she saw me. She must have smelled the bread. Her cheeks were hollow and her limbs were so skinny. I could hardly bear to see her like that.

I suppose I stood watching her a moment too long. My mother swooped down on me, demanding why I was standing there gaping like a fish while the bread cooled in my hands. Before I could stutter out an answer she followed my gaze outside to where Katniss had just lifted the lid on our trash bin. Her trembling hands groped listlessly around the emptiness within.

The back door flung open before I even realized my mother had left my side. I followed her instinctively, squinting out against the wind and rain.

"Girl!" my mother screeched. "Move on, before I call the Peacekeepers!"

Katniss froze, looking like a startled deer.

"I'm sick of you Seam brats pawing through my trash! _Move on!_" She slammed the door shut as Katniss backed away warily and I found myself staring at hard wood.

I knew what I had to do.

I waited a few minutes, trying to work up the nerve. But then I dove straight in. Our ovens were not the fancy, electric powered machines I've seen on Capitol TV. They're large and cast iron, with a roaring fire in the base. And so as I removed the next two loaves from their racks, I "fumbled".

The bread had barely touched the flames when I felt the blow. It nearly sent me keeling into the flame. I snatched the loaves out and clutched them to me, staring up at my mother resentfully. I don't remember what she screamed at me but I got out of that kitchen as fast as possible, making a beeline for the pig pen.

I could see her huddled beneath our apple tree, just beyond the pen. She was clutching her knees to her chest and staring despairingly into the rain. Her reverie was only broken by the sound of my boots sloshing through the mud. As usual, before we could make eye contact I dropped my gaze to my feet. I stopped so I was somewhat shielded by the pig pen, made sure my mother was out of sight, and threw her the loaves, one by one. And then I hurried back to the bakery and away from the girl I now stand paralyzed in front of.

Ever since then I've found myself even more fixated on her, if possible. It was the first and only true interaction we've ever had. Until now.

I vaguely register that Mayor Undersee is motioning for us to do something. But what? I can't remember what the tributes are supposed to do now until I see Katniss extending her hand towards me.

We shake hands and the only thing I can think is how soft and lovely her hand feels. I don't want to let go. My hand squeezes hers possessively and I see her glance down and then back up at my face. Questioning.

The anthem plays and I'm staring blankly at the crowd.

Someone else has to kill this girl. Anyone else. I could never bring myself to do it.

I could never bring myself to kill Katniss. Because all I see when I look at her is the little girl in the rain, staring at me with hope in her eyes


	3. Chapter 3

The anthem ends abruptly. Too soon. I look down and see a group of Peacekeepers waiting for us. Their faces are familiar, yet all I see now is a threat. They may be kind in District 12 but that doesn't change the fact that they're under the authority of the Capitol.

And because of the Capitol, I'm going to die.

I hesitate. Katniss strides forward and down the steps, staring straight ahead in stony acceptance. All her fear and desperation from earlier has evaporated as if it never existed.

She's strong. She knows how to deal with hardship. I'm weak and soft and quaking in my boots. There's no way I can win these Games. She's already stronger than I am.

I follow her down the steps and a Peacekeeper grabs onto my elbow lightly. He's only guiding me but still I flinch and pull away. The Justice Building looms up before us and the door is opening and then we're inside. I feel strange and removed from the rest of the District as soon as the doors have shut.

I realize I never even looked back. Maybe it's better that way. The sooner I accept I'm not coming home, the easier things will be.

We're led down a hall to the right. Katniss goes into a room on the left and then I'm shunted into another farther down. This must be where I'll be saying my goodbyes.

Once inside I find myself standing on a thick maroon carpet. I sit on the couch and marvel at how soft and silky the cushions feel. It must be velvet. My mother is always complaining about how badly she wants a velvet dress, like the ones worn by fancy women in the Capitol.

_The Capitol._

I shiver involuntarily. This still feels so surreal. I'm going into the Games. How is that possible? Sure, I've been terrified of being chosen every year, but who isn't? I never thought I'd be selected. I've never even had to take tesserae. I don't have any skills to use in the arena. None that will keep me alive.

And I'm going in with Katniss. How can I even attempt to survive these Games if it means she will die? If I live, she dies. If she lives, I die.

The room is getting claustrophobic. I'm just thinking of cracking the windows open for a breath of fresh air when the door creaks open.

My family.

They shuffle in awkwardly. My brothers refuse to look at me and my mother seems torn. My father is staring at me. His eyes are big and round and full of emotion and he looks as if he's about to cry.

I don't know what to do. I stare at them blankly, the air catching in my throat. _Say something, _I will in my head. _Anything. _

My father lets out a strange cry. It sounds like he started to sob but suppressed it, or maybe even tried to turn it into a laugh. Either way I suddenly find his arms around me and my face buried in his shoulder. And that's when I begin to cry.

I clutch my father to me. My hands claw desperately at the fabric of his shirt. I feel like a child again, young and vulnerable and wanting nothing more than my parent's protection. But I know they can't help me now.

I don't know how long it's been when he pulls away. He looks embarrassed. Gruffly, he takes a seat next to me on the couch and wipes his eyes.

"I don't want to go."

The words escape my mouth before I even realize I've thought them. It's the only thing I can think of to say. The silence that follows stretches out so long it becomes unbearable.

"I know." He's staring at the ground now, as if concentrating on every little ripple and shadow in the carpet. He pulls out a small paper bag, hands me a cookie and is silent.

This is how we stay for the remainder of the hour. I hold the cookie tightly in my hand. I don't have the stomach to eat it. My mother and brothers say nothing.

The door opens again and I realize our time is up. The desperation hits me out of nowhere. I don't want them to leave. They can't. If they leave, I'll be taken away. I may never see them again. If they go, I'm going to leave District 12 forever.

There's nothing I can do but watch as one by one, my family files out the door. Except for my mother. She hesitates, staring at me with a strange expression I can't comprehend.

"Maybe District 12 will finally have a winner."

I stare at her. Is this her way of supporting me? Of showing that she hopes I'll come home? Is it possible the despite the years of neglect and harsh words, she actually feels something for me?

She sees my shock and her faces becomes stony. Impassive.

"She's a survivor, that one."

And then she's gone. I stare at the doorway. I'm crushed. My mother has said a number of terrible things to me during my life. But none as low as that. Is there anyone who has faith I'll return? Anyone who thinks I have what it takes? Is there anyone, anyone at all who wants me to come home?

I imagine my family without me. They would be happy. They would be normal. My father would be sad and empty for a while but even he would move on. Eventually. This is the way things go in District 12. Hardship and heartbreak happen, but you have to move on. You have to get back on your feet and act like nothing's happened because that's the only way you'll survive. My family will be happy and they will be normal and maybe, after enough time has passed, they'll barely think of me at all.

The loneliness crushes me. I can't breathe. The world is swimming before my eyes and I realize I'm crying again. The warm, salty tears run down my cheeks and I don't bother to wipe them away. What does it matter?

What does anything matter anymore?

The Games. The Games matter. I can't give up now, not before it's even started. What will the arena be like? I shudder as past Games flit through my mind. Will it be snowy? Or scorching hot, a desert? Will there be poison? Strange traps hidden away, waiting for the first unsuspecting tribute to discover them?

The little resolve I managed to build up crumbles in a heap as all the possibilities rage through my mind. Whatever it is, it will mean death. In one way or another the arena will be lethal, and the only thing I can do now is hope.

There's movement by the door and I look up. Prim. The little girl who nearly faced the Games today is walking by, hand in hand with her mother, and for a moment we lock eyes. And then she's gone.

I don't know what to think. Would I rather my district partner have been her, or Katniss? Would I rather be faced with the possibility of murdering the young 12 year old, or the girl I'm in love with?

There's too many "what ifs". I can't afford to think like that. Not now. I need to focus on what's ahead. I need to focus on the Games and decide what I want to do-fight my hardest to stay alive at the expense of Katniss' life? Or let her live, even if it means my own death?

I don't know. I honestly don't know.

A Peacekeeper enters the room. I don't stand so he grabs me by the arm and lifts me up. My legs feel numb and weak. I can do nothing but shuffle forward blindly.

I vaguely realize that we've entered a car. I've never been in one before and unfortunately, given the circumstances, I can't find it in me to appreciate the ride. It's short anyways.

We arrive at the train station and I'm alarmed to see it's full of reporters. I'm not ready for this. I don't want to be filmed. I don't want to be broadcasted all across Panem for the Capitol's sick enjoyment.

I stand beside Katniss in the train's doorway. We both stare unseeingly past the sea of cameras and faces trying desperately to get our attention. I do my best to hold in the tears but I'm not fooling anyone.

I must look so weak. I'm off to a bad start already.

The doors close and the noise of the train station is deadened immediately. I have barely any time to be thankful for this before the train sets off, and then all I can think about is how fast we're moving. How quickly did they say Capitol trains go? 250 miles per hour? I don't even have the capacity to understand how fast that really is, but looking out the window tells me that it must be very, very fast. I can see nothing but blurs of color as we race past trees and hills and grass.

I stick around just long enough to hear Effie mention we will arrive at the Capitol in less than 24 hours. I follow a tipsy Haymitch down a narrow corridor and to my room. He mumbles something about laying down for a nap, but I barely hear him. I shut myself in my room and collapse onto the bed, staring unseeingly at the ceiling.

Denial. That's the only way I can describe how I'm feeling. It was horrifying before, but now I'm actually on the train. I've left District 12 for the first time in my life and I'm on the way to the Capitol.

I'm never coming home.

It hits me then. The certainty. I'm going to die. I'm not going to survive these games. I have no chance, no chance at all.

I can't keep thinking this way. I need to distract my mind. I lurch off the bed and stare at the room surrounding me. After a bit of exploring I learn I have my own private bathroom, complete with a shower and warm running water. I resolve to make use of this later, after dinner. I don't have the motivation to anything but the bare minimum at the moment. I also have a wardrobe full of clothing: recently ironed button down shirts, black and brown slacks, ties. Even a few pair of shoes. I shut the wardrobe door in disgust.

For the next hour I stare out my window, taking in the blurs of color that are only evidence of the world flashing by. Green. Brown. A flash of blue sky here and there.

I vaguely remember Effie mentioning something about dinner, and so I decide to go investigate the meal car. No one is there yet. I take a seat carefully, eyeing the very expensive looking glassware and china sitting atop the table.

Moments later, Katniss and Effie Trinket enter. I catch Katniss' gaze for a moment before she looks away. My stomach twists.

"Where's Haymitch?" Effie sounds chipper as usual.

"Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap." I respond, trying to keep my voice neutral.

Effie brightens even more at this news, if possible. "Well, it's been an exhausting day."

The dinner comes then and the Games are pushed out of my mind, if only briefly. The food is fantastic. Being part of a merchant family, I've always eaten better than most in District 12. But even what I'm used to having pales in comparison to the Capitol food. Course after course comes. It's never ending and after a few minutes I already feel uncomfortably full. I can see Katniss barely containing herself as more and more food is brought to the table.

"At least you two have decent manners," Effie says, sniffing in distaste at some memory from a past Games. "The pair last year ate everything with their hands like a couple of savages. It completely upset my digestion."

The image of little Katniss, emaciated and starving flashes through my mind and all of sudden I'm furious with this woman. I remember those tributes. Starvation was one of the only things they knew.

The meal ends and Haymitch never shows up. I have mixed feelings on this. On one hand, he's an infuriating drunk who's very difficult to stay in the same room with. On the other, he's our mentor. He's one of the only things that will help us stay alive.

Effie leads us into an another compartment and I resolve to put this out of my mind. It's taking enough willpower just to keep all the Capitol food I've eaten in my stomach.

The new room has a huge TV mounted on the wall. I'm just wondering what we'll use this for when Effie flips it on, and I'm faced with the televised version of another Reaping. My stomach sinks.

It's time to see my opponents. I've been so busy worrying about myself and Katniss that the others barely crossed my mind.

I forget the names nearly as soon as they've been called. There's just too many people. It becomes a blend of sound and images and I only remember a few of the tributes being called. The ones that stand out.

The ones I'll have to watch for.

The Careers, four tributes from Districts 1 and 2, look dangerous. As usual. The girls can't match the brute strength and size of their male counterparts, but they are small and lithe. And that can be deadly. The other tributes range in size and age. Some look dangerous, others look like they can barely handle a kitchen knife. One boy has trouble just making it to the stage and limps all the way with a deformed foot. How can I possibly fight him? He can't properly defend himself.

And then there's the young ones. A small, dark skinned girl is called from District 11. I find myself willing someone to volunteer in her place, but no one steps forward. Silence fills their square and I have to shut my eyes just to block out the image of her standing all alone on that stage. It's all too much. Too much.

Then, there's us. I watch sadly as Katniss volunteers. I feel her stiffen beside me on the couch as her sister's screams are broadcasted through the speakers for all to hear. I get a strange urge to put my arm around her. Comfort her. But I stop myself.

I stop paying attention once my name is called. I don't want to watch. I don't want to see the terror on my face. It makes me feel weak, and that is the last thing I need at the moment. Right now I just need to be strong. I need to build up my resolve and start preparing for the weeks ahead. I snap back to attention as the program ends and Effie speaks up, sounding irritated.

"Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about televised behavior."

I laugh loudly. It sounds fake, even to my ears. "He was drunk. He's drunk every year."

"Every day," Katniss adds. I look at her in surprise. This is the first time she's so openly acknowledged me since the reaping. It feels nice, but strange at the same time. I realize that I'm smiling.

"Yes, how odd you two find it amusing. You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games." She observes us sternly. "The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts." Her voice rises, nearly hysterical. "Haymitch can well be the difference between your life and death!"

Right on cue, Haymitch bursts into the compartment. "I miss supper?"

You can barely understand his slurring, but it doesn't really matter as moments later he dramatically vomits all over the train car's floor.

"So laugh away!" Effie Trinket cries shrilly. She scurries from the room, shooting a disgusted glance at Haymitch before disappearing from view.

I realize she's right. Haymitch is practically useless in this state.

We're doomed.


	4. Chapter 4

Haymitch lets out an incoherent groan and tries in vain to lift himself from the pool of sick he's fallen into. I wrinkle my nose in distaste. The smell is atrocious, not to mention with every movement the drunk smears more brown liquid onto his hands and clothes. The alcohol we can always detect on his breath smells twice as bad splashed all over the floor.

I glance towards Katniss to see she's already looking at me. She nods almost imperceptibly, and with a resigned sigh I stoop down with her. I grab ahold of one of his arms. With a heave and much grunting, we've got Haymitch on his feet.

"I tripped?" he stares blearily around, bemused. "Smells bad." He wipes a vomit-smeared hand across his nose and I suppress to urge to be sick myself.

I sigh inwardly as I realize what has to be done. "Let's get you back to your room. Clean you up a bit."

And so we make our way slowly down the hallway to Haymitch's compartment. It takes all our combined strength to keep him upright, as he's tripping over his own feet every other step. Once there we dump him unceremoniously into the tub. I feel a prick of satisfaction as he groans in protest.

Katniss turns on the shower, sending a burst of cold water onto Haymitch's unconscious form. I glance sideways at her. She looks uncomfortable.

"It's okay. I'll take it from here." Her gray eyes meet mine again, questioning me. A shiver goes down my spine.

"All right," she says slowly, measuring her words. "I can send one of the Capitol people to help you."

I shake my head violently. "No. I don't want them." The last thing I want right now is someone from the Capitol-with their ridiculous hair and makeup and body modifications-breathing down my neck. All they do is remind me of the Games.

She drops her eyes down to our mentor and does that little nod again, the one you need to watch closely for to catch. I find my eyes tracing the soft curve of her cheek and the slope of her neck and then that familiar feeling of warmth is filling my chest.

But then she turns and she's gone.

I watch the door shut sadly. All of a sudden an image drifts forward from the recesses of my mind. Small, young Katniss with a grin on her face, following her father through the streets of District 12, staring at him like he's the only creature in the world. She used to wear such pretty dresses back then. Simple, inexpensive, but pretty. She wore her hair down much more. And she smiled. She smiled a lot, then. Before she knew true heartbreak.

I shake the memory away and turn back to my charge. With a grimace I peel back his clothing. It's soaked through with cold water and traces of vomit. I rush through the task of cleaning him. I do only the bare minimum to at least make him decent. Because frankly, at this point in the game I owe nothing to this man.

After a few minutes he looks clean enough. All of Haymitch's clothing, except for his underwear, is lying in a sopping heap at my feet. I shut off the water and leave as quickly as possible, wondering how long it will take him to wake up and realize what's happened.

I walk blindly through the train, barely registering as I pass Katniss' room. Her door is shut tight, I can't tell if she's inside or not. But it doesn't matter. The only thing that matters right now is that I can feel myself spiraling. I'm letting the demons back in.

I shut myself in my room and fall back onto my bed, cradling my head in my hands. The sun is steadily sinking. Warped, dark shadows fill my room, flickering as we rush past trees and small hillsides. I don't bother turning on the light.

I've never been one to deal well with stress. I can act very well. I can put on a facade, a mask so to speak, and seem to keep everything together under pressure. I can smile. I can laugh. I can joke around and lighten the tension as if nothing is wrong. But on the inside it's a whole different story.

I can feel a scream building up inside of me. I refuse to let it out. In a silent fit of rage and anguish I lurch to my feet and send my fist flying into the wall. Over and over and over again until my knuckles and bright red, raw.

The wall looks good as new. I can't even put a dent in a wall, how am I supposed to kill a person? How am I supposed to survive against a Career?

I strip off my shirt and kick off my shoes before falling onto the bed, not even bothering to pull the covers over myself. Despite the late hour the air still feels hot and humid. It's moist and clogging. We must be getting close.

The image of my father and his bloodshot eyes blooms behind the walls of my closed eyelids, but before I can contemplate the mix of emotions this sparks, I'm asleep.

_I'm sitting on the front stoop of the bakery. Judging by the softness of my hands and the knobby knees they're resting on, I must be young. Very young._

_I look up and see little Katniss. She's wearing an old, faded dress. She wears a makeshift braid with little bits of hair sticking out haphazardly. It's definitely not the neat work of her mother. She must've tried to fashion it herself with a clumsy, weak hand. Her cheeks are hollow and her legs are skinny. She's tugging a small wagon along behind her, and I feel a knot twist in my stomach as I realize it's full of tesserae. _

_All of a sudden she turns, locking eyes with me. Her face is stony. She's right in front of the bakery now, only a few feet away. _

_A hand grips my shoulder. I can't move to see who it is. My eyes are still locked on Katniss. My mother's voice whispers softly in my ear._

_"You have to kill her, Peeta. You have to kill her."_

_Katniss has let go of the wagon handle. She's stepping towards me. Her eyes look so sad. So broken. I realize with a start that the small girl before me is holding a knife. Her knuckles are white. Slowly my eyes find their way back up to her grays. A tear trickles silently down her cheek. _

_She's crying._

_"You have to kill her, Peeta. You have to kill Katniss."_

I open my eyes with a start, sucking in a deep breath and trying to calm my racing heart. I'm laying on my back. Sunlight streams across the ceiling.

It's already morning.

Just as I'm about to sit up and get my bearings, the door creaks open and Effie goggles in at me. I sit up in surprise and my face flushes red as I realize I'm still shirtless.

Effie's eyes widen and she immediately gets flustered. Her eyes sweep upwards to fix on the ceiling.

"Goodmorning! You left you door cracked open, I thought you were up and about already…" her uncomfortable chirp trails off and her eyes flicker down to fix on me before snapping back upwards. "It's going to be a big, big day! You really must get out of bed, breakfast is already being served in the dining car!"

With that said she skitters away, leaving the door hanging open.

I groan in embarrassment and rub my eyes. She surprised me so much that I forgot about the dream I'd had. I can already feel the fine details slipping away, the images growing fuzzy and swirling together.

Katniss had been crying, though. I remember that.

Trying to put it out of my mind, I lurch to my feet and step over to my wardrobe. I pull out the first outfit my fingers find, only pausing long enough to make sure it matches before pulling it on. The last thing I need to do is arrive at the Capitol looking tacky and disheveled. The Capitol people are so superficial and hold appearance in such high regard, I know even a small thing like that would probably cut my chance at getting some decent sponsors in half.

One quick trip to the bathroom later, I head to the dining car.

Effie is the only one inside. She has her back to me, making coffee by the looks of it. The scent of freshly cooked eggs, ham and potatoes permeate the air and I realize how hungry I am.

Effie turns at and beams at me, the awkwardness of earlier evidently forgotten.

"Ah, sit down, sit down! You'll love the meal!" She gestures towards a chair. "Do you know what hot chocolate is? It's quite delicious, I've noticed most of the tributes have never heard of it. Shocking, I say…"

She continues to ramble on as I make my way to my seat. I take a sip of the brown stuff and realize it's delicious. I'm just reaching for a roll when Haymitch slouches in, one hand rubbing his temple. He grunts a greeting and falls unceremoniously into his seat at the head of the table.

"Goodmorning, Haymitch." Effie's voice is suddenly stiff and forced.

He ignores her greeting. "Who left me in that bathtub last night?" He points his fork menacingly at me. "Was it you?"

I shrug and break the roll in half. I don't feel like talking to the drunk.

He ignores me and swings his fork over to point at Effie. "How about you, sweetheart?" His mouth twists into a cruel grin. It seems years of dealing with the woman has taught him just how to irk her. "I was practically naked when I woke up. Don't tell me you were trying to catch a peek with me in such a _compromising _state?" He laughs. "Eh, sweetheart?"

Effie stares at him for a moment, her face growing red and her eyes squinting in anger. Clearly, this kind of talk does not constitute "good manners." Haymitch chuckles again and she shoots him a disgusted look before exiting in a hurry. She's barely out the door when Katniss appears, looking startled.

"Sit down! Sit down!" Haymitch crows, still looking pleased over having infuriated Effie. Katniss looks at him warily and slides sideways into her chair, eyes falling to her platter of food. Her fingers trace the top of a mug of the hot chocolate Effie had been talking about. She brings it up to her nose to sniff.

"They call it hot chocolate," I say. "It's good."

She takes a sip and her eyes widen. My mouth curls up in a grin as she sucks it down within moments. Her attention hardly breaks as her gaze falls to the food and she digs in.

We eat and eat. I vaguely register that this will probably be the last meal before we reach the Capitol. I've finally slowed down and am now lazily eating some pieces of bread dipped in hot chocolate, when I realize Katniss is staring intently at Haymitch.

He's drinking, again. The red liquid reeks and he keeps pouring water in it to thin it and make it last longer. There's already a pink hue to his cheeks. His eyes are glassy. Who knows how much longer he'll last.

"So, you're supposed to give us advice." Katniss' voice breaks the silence. Her tone is clipped, her words short.

He pauses, staring over the rim of his glass at her. "Here's some advice. Stay alive." He laughs loudly to himself.

I feel my face harden. Rage burns inside of me. Why does he think he has the right to toy with our lives this way? Why does he have the right to tune out and sit back, make us do all the work? Make us fight even more for our lives than we already need to?

Katniss' eyes find mine again.

"That's very funny," I say. My voice is hard. "Only not to us."

Haymitch stops laughing, his eyes glittering in a mix between amusement and irritation as he surveys us. Then in a blur movement he lurches forward and punches me in the face.

My head reels as the force of it sends me falling onto the floor. I curse inwardly and clutch my jaw, wincing and trying to get back to my feet with as much dignity as possible. I hear a strange thunk, but I can't see anything from my vantage point.

"Well, what's this?" I hear Haymitch say. "Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?"

I pull myself up from the floor to see Katniss standing up from her seat, face alive with anger. She's driven the tip of her butter knife into the table, barring Haymitch from grabbing his glass full of spirits.

My face is throbbing. I see ice beneath the tureen of fruit and reach for it, eager to press something cool against my cheek.

"No," Haymitch says, stopping me. "Let the bruise show. The audience will think you've mixed it up with another tribute before you've even made it to the arena." He seems serious all of a sudden.

"That's against the rules." I say dumbly.

"Only if they catch you," he corrects. "That bruise will say you fought, you weren't caught, even better." He turns to Katniss then. "Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?"

She deliberates for a moment, staring at the knife still embedded in the table. Then she yanks it out and takes one stride towards the far wall, focusing intently. One snap of the wrist later, the knife spirals through the air and buries itself between two of the wall's wooden panels.

I'm not sure whether to be impressed or frightened.

Haymitch hardly acknowledges the feat. Instead he gestures for us to come forward. "Stand over here. Both of you."

We step forward and I find myself standing uncomfortably close to Katniss. Her shoulder is practically brushing up against mine. I try not to think of it and instead focus on Haymitch, who's started circling, examining us like we're cattle on display. He pokes at us, even squeezing my upper arm at one point and examining my hair. I resist the urge to back away from him.

Finally, he steps back. "Well, you're not entirely hopeless. Seem fit. And once the stylists get hold of you, you'll be attractive enough."

I feel like that last bit would be insulting under normal circumstances, but at the moment I honestly could care less. The better looking we are, the more likely we'll receive help in the arena. Sponsors are key.

"All right, I'll make a deal with you. You don't interfere with my drinking, and I'll stay sober enough to help you." He pauses, observing us silently. "But you have to do exactly what I say."

Not exactly what I wanted, but I have to admit it's better than nothing. It's better than entering the arena completely defenseless and unprepared. This is a lifeline, albeit a small one, and I'm willing to take it.

"Fine," I say quietly.

Katniss doesn't see as satisfied. "So help us! When we get to the arena, what's the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone-"

Haymitch shakes his head, waving her question off. "One thing at a time. In a few minutes, we'll be pulling into the station. You'll be put in the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don't resist."

"But-" she tries again.

"No buts. Don't resist." With that, he picks up his bottle of alcohol and exits without looking back. It seems that little tidbit of advice is all we'll be receiving from him today.

Seconds after the door shuts, the windows go dark. It's as if we've been plunged underground. I have a moment of panic before I remember sitting in school, listening to my teacher talk about the geography of Panem. We're passing through the mountain range that serves as a buffer between the Capitol and the rest of the world. We're even closer than I thought.

I feel Katniss step away from me lightly. I don't look in her direction. Instead I focus on the train windows, waiting for the light to come back. My last moments of freedom are slipping away, second by second.

The sun streams through the window again, momentarily blinding me after the long minutes of darkness. The train is slowing down and as soon as my eyes adjust, I see it.

The Capitol.

Buildings tower up into the sky, colorful and glinting in the sunlight. Strange looking cars that shine brightly roll down the streets. Strange looking people drive them and strut down the streets. The people have noticed us, their faces lighting up in excitement. They don't even look human. They look like some strange breed of animal, one that for some inexplicable reason can speak our language and laugh like us and act like us.

I don't know what it is about this sight that does it. But all of a sudden everything becomes real to me. I'm here. I'm in the Capitol. I'm at the mercy of all these people and their silly whims. I am about to go into the Games.

And I am prepared. I'm past the hysterical phase. They will not control me. They will not make me weak.

Katniss steps away from the window and brings me back to the present. I know what I have to do. Stepping forward, I let the light fall on me and lean towards the window, my face breaking out in a grin. I raise my hand and wave. The Capitol people are besides themselves at this and start cheering and waving enthusiastically.

I turn back towards Katniss, meaning to tell her to join me. But I'm stopped short by the hard look on her face. The imagine in my dream comes back to me in vivid clarity, the stone-faced little girl with a knife in her hand. I see nothing but anger and distrust in her eyes. Is she already lost to me?

I shrug pathetically, uncomfortable beneath her accusing glare. "Who knows? One of them may be rich."

I turn back to the window. I wave. I smile. And I try to ignore the pricking sensation on the back of my neck. One that tells me she's still glaring.

Strangely, it feels like a death sentence.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: So I realize I haven't been doing any of these AN's, haha. Hello! :) Thank you so much for reading! I'm trying my very best to get these chapters out quickly but unfortunately time and schedule do not always permit. I'm planning on writing the entire first book of the series from Peeta's POV, and possibly further books if the response I receive is good. Please leave me some feedback! I want to know what you as the reader are thinking and what you enjoy about the story, or better yet, what can be fixed! I always seem write in some sort of discrepancy that doesn't fit with the book, and I'm always missing typos as well! So leave me a review, it's much appreciated. :)<em>


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